


Halcyon

by BrieflyDel (newredshoes)



Category: X-Men (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Grief/Mourning, Post-X2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-08-09
Updated: 2003-08-09
Packaged: 2018-01-07 15:40:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1121607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newredshoes/pseuds/BrieflyDel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some find solace in speeches. Others seek it elsewhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Halcyon

**Author's Note:**

> [](http://trismegistus.livejournal.com/profile)[**trismegistus**](http://trismegistus.livejournal.com/) [made me do it.](http://www.livejournal.com/users/brandybuck/338377.html) Thanks to [](http://witchytigg.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://witchytigg.livejournal.com/)**witchytigg** for being awesome as well.

The day has no respect for pathetic fallacy. Like many funerals Kurt has attended, the sky is overbright, and every color looks far too vibrant to be real. The crowd is peppered with people he recognizes: students and faculty alike huddle in their chairs. Most have ashen faces; Scott looks made of cinders. If Logan is anywhere, it would be at the back; but Kurt does not think he has come.

He is sitting in the second row, one seat from the center aisle. At times Ororo reaches over and takes his hand, and she stares straight ahead, immobile. Dr. Grey's closest friends all seem to share the urgency for control; if Storm breaks, the clouds break with her. With his other hand, he thumbs his rosary, the perfect roundness of each bead one prayer closer to recovery. _Ehr sei dem Vater und dem Sohn und dem Heiligen Geist, wie es war im Anfang, jetzt und immerdar und von Ewigkeit zu Ewigkeit. Amen._

The Professor is speaking. His words are eloquent and elegiac, but his voice does most of the soothing. No mention of death crosses his lips -- he has insisted that this service is a celebration of a life, rather than a keening of a loss. He speaks of Jean Grey and all her qualities, of everything worth loving in her. Scott is staring at his feet, his shoulders fighting to remain erect. _Er erquicket meine Seele,_ Kurt murmurs, and pushes one more bead through his fingers.

Professor Xavier conclude his remarks and asks if anyone would like to share their memories of Jean. In the silence between volunteers, the roar of a motorcycle flees into the west.

* * *

Ororo leaves with a tight throat and a weak chest. Her head still throbs at the thought of the whole ordeal, and she wonders if the memorial has ended or begun the period in which it’s okay to talk about her friend. Kurt had helped her up, one arm around her shoulders to steady and comfort her. As they walked, it seemed to slip down to her waist. Neither of them comment, since it doesn’t feel wrong.

Kurt lets her lead, and doesn’t question her meandering. She has no desire to go back inside, and still less desire to linger. She says his name quietly, her gaze on the grass. “Can we go somewhere? Off the grounds? I don’t think I want to be here right now.”

His grave eyes flick onto her face, and his tail swishes behind them. “Of course,” he answers, and looks around. “Do you have anyplace in mind?”

She thinks of the town, of coffee shops and park benches and river banks, but her stomach twists as Jean’s face appears in every one of them. _And Kurt -- his face is not welcome out there._ Her brow darkens. _I would not have him paint himself for those people--_

The warmth of his hand on her shoulder interrupts her flash of anger. “I know a place,” he tells her. “It is far, but it brought me peace when I lived in Boston. Are you up for a drive?”

Ororo watches his face, traces the puckered lines swirling over it with her eyes. “Why don’t you take us,” she finds her lips saying, surprising both of them.

“Are you sure? The journey... it does not matter to me, but you might get sick.” She squeezes his hand in reply. After a pause, he wraps his arms around her and pulls her close. His breath is hot against her neck--

_Bamf!_

A strange cold place, and then the brief sight of trees.

_Bamf!_

Cold again, the spire of a church.

_Bamf!_

Her insides churn; she’s losing count. They are atop a parking garage overlooking a harbor.

_Bamf!_

“Here we are.”

The stillness jolts her. Ororo realizes she has buried her face in his shoulder. An acrid taste clings to the roof of her mouth; her knuckles are white, her fists full of his shirt. He turns his neck, just a little. “Would you like to sit down? Should I let go?” A breeze cools her scalp, and she opens her eyes.

Kurt has brought them to an island; the tailbone in a long archipelago, little more than an outcrop of rock. The water is unending, the only hint of land far behind them. Every once and a while, the cries of birds wheel overhead. _“Und der Geist Gottes schwebte auf dem Wasser.”_ Kurt smiles and exhales. _And the spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters._

She doesn’t thank him, not verbally; but she settles into his grasp and rests her head on his shoulder, eyes seaward. Ororo’s thoughts drift, and she remembers the waters over the lake that they fled. Her fingers seek his, and she winds them together without speaking. Their thoughts are their own.

Some time later, Kurt clears his throat and speaks. “The sea is getting a bit rough. I think we should leave now, Ororo.” He shifts his weight; a wind ruffles his hair and musses up his sheen of fur.

She tilts her head thoughtfully. “If it’s all right with you, I’m not ready to go back yet.”

Puzzled, he frowns. “But, the weather--”

“Works both ways. Sit tight.”

She extends her fingers, feeling the static crackling through the air and catching its attention. As she shifts her focus from past to present, the ground slips away beneath her. Storm spreads her arms and pushes against the spray. The clouds protest noisily, but she will not be disobeyed.

Around the island, a wall of gray rain hurls itself at the ocean. Kurt cranes his neck and stares at the tunnel of utter calm rising around him. Ororo hovers in its eye, undisturbed. He cannot see her face, but the retreat of sound can only reflect a growing inner hush. The hole in the storm grows wider, each inch one moment closer to respite. A breeze circles the rock, and all the salt water on Kurt’s face disperses.

As she descends, her boundaries bow and eventually converge into a dome. When Kurt catches her, the last traces of white have fled her pupils, and a ceiling of water is bearing down upon them. For an instant, panic seizes him by the throat, and he knows they both will drown.

Ororo wraps one arm about his chest. Her halcyon smile steadies him. She squeezes his hand, and he closes his eyes. The dome breaks; the rains barrel down on nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> 1: Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost; as it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, world without end. Amen. 
> 
>  
> 
> 2: He restoreth my soul.


End file.
